


Where the Lovelight Gleams

by Scout924



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 23:05:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17010879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scout924/pseuds/Scout924
Summary: "You go right on out that door and you go tell your Ma I said ‘no, thank you,’ and I will not be coming over for Christmas dinner. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, Bucky Barnes.”Bucky's just trying to make sure Steve's not alone for Christmas, especially since it's the first one he's had since his Ma died. And if he has to drag Christmas cheer through the door all by himself, well, that's what he'll do.





	Where the Lovelight Gleams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whatthefoucault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/gifts).



It’s been snowing for three days, and Bucky thinks it’s about high time it stopped. 

 

He’s standing outside the tall stone building where Steve takes his art classes, which is due to be finished any minute now. He hasn’t told Steve this, but Bucky makes sure to be here every day when Steve gets out, mainly so he can make sure the younger man keeps attending classes. Bucky had talked to his boss down at the pharmacy a few months ago, right after Sarah Rogers’ health took a sharp decline. He agreed to come into work an hour early if he could get off fifteen minutes late to make it down to meet Steve each afternoon. Steve, of course, was never to hear about it, not if Bucky could help it. 

 

A few minutes after five, Bucky spots his blond head stepping out into the cold, looking like the winter gusts could topple him right over. He’s got a worn brown scarf wrapped up clear to his eyes, and a tattered brown coat pulled snug about his shoulders. Bucky strides right up to him and pulls Steve snug up under his arm, bracing him against the cold. 

 

“What’dya draw for me today, pal?” He cheeks, squeezing his arm tight around Steve’s bony shoulders. 

 

Steve’s eyes crinkle with mirth, and the lumpy scarf slides down, revealing a red nose that would put Rudolph to shame. “Don’t flatter yourself, Buck.” 

 

“Don’t pretend like you’re not working on my Christmas present, Rogers.”

 

“What’s it to you if I was? What would I draw for a mook like you anyways?”

 

They trudge through the snow, which is gathering quickly on the sidewalks and along the sides of the street. It’s two days before Christmas, and people are milling about, bustling in and out of stores to gather food and last minute gifts for the fast approaching holiday. Bucky keeps his arm wrapped tightly around Steve until they reach his building, thankful that Steve doesn’t mention the close contact. 

 

“So, Ma wants to know if you want ham or turkey.”

 

Steve stiffens, rolls his eyes and ducks out from under Bucky’s arm, coughing wetly into his mittened hand. His thumb pokes out through a large hole. 

 

Bucky continues on, used to the game by now and determined to win it. “I told her you don’t much care for ham for all the gristle, but you love gravy so she ought to make turkey.”

 

Steve keeps his jaw clamped shut, digging around in his pockets incessantly for his key. Bucky bumps his hip gently, jiggling his spare key in the hole and kicking the bottom of the door where it sticks. Steve’s shoulder is black and blue from regularly slamming his small frame against the wood trying to force it open. 

 

“She’s making sweet potatoes too, since they’re your favorite.”

 

Calmly, Steve unwinds his scarf, slowly revealing his face. Bucky would never tell Steve this, but in his eyes, he’s finer than china. He knows Steve hates being small and primly built, but Bucky thinks every feature on Steve’s face, his sharp jawbone, the high arch of his cheeks, the soft crook of his nose, seems hand carved like those fancy Greek sculptures that Steve studies in his art history class. His pale, milky skin is painted with a rosy flush from the exertion of the walk home and the biting wind. When Steve’s small pink tongue darts over his lips to wet them, Bucky feels warmth like dancing fingertips spill over his shoulders and down his spine. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills the thoughts away. 

 

“C’mon Stevie, don’t make me beg.”

 

Steve sniffs, shaking flakes of slush out of his scarf before hanging it on a nail with his coat. . “Then don’t. I told you, I’m stayin’ here and I won’t go arguin’ with you about it.”

 

“Look now, don’t tell me it’ll be any trouble, you know she’ll make more food than we can eat and I’ll be forced to eat turkey sandwiches ‘til I’m sick.” Bucky turns, rustling around in Steve’s kitchen and trying to inconspicuously hunt for food. He finds a stray potato and starts to cut off some of the dark spots with his pocket knife. “It’ll be way better if you come. You can help me read ‘‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ to the girls. And I’ll even let you have the cookies--”

 

“Bucky.”

 

“--they like you better than me anyway, probably because you read the story  _ way  _ better than I do, I know it’s ‘cause you’re mostly full of hot air, but---”

 

“ _ Bucky.” _

 

“And you know Ma will make that awful cranberry salad and you’re the only one besides her who likes it, so--”

 

“ _ BUCKY _ !”

 

A wet potato skin rolls off Bucky’s knife and lands on the floor with a  _ plop.  _ Bucky’s forced to meet Steve’s piercing blue eyes where he still stands by the door. His china doll face is splashed entirely in red now, chest heaving angrily. Bucky opens his mouth again to tell him to calm down, but Steve cuts him off.

 

“No, I’m done hearin’ your mouth. I am not going over to your house for everyone to feel sorry for me ‘cause Ma is dead. I know what you’re doin’, and I appreciate it, I really do. I don’t know if you’re deaf, blind, or just plain  _ stupid,  _ but I’m not leaving this house until Christmas is over.”

 

He stomps right up to Bucky, who can see the reddened flush of his skin creeping down into the collar of his shirt. Bucky knows if he doesn’t calm down now, he’ll be caught in the throes of an asthma attack for the rest of the night. He holds up a hand, but Steve just snatches the potato out of his grasp. 

 

“Stop trying to feed me, I can take care of my own damn self. Ma hasn’t been gone a month, don’t worry, the buzzards ain’t circling me yet,” he seethes, throwing the potato into the wash basin and squaring his shoulders. 

 

“Alright, Steve, that’s enough.” Bucky squares his own shoulders, sick anger rising around his ears. He won’t hit Steve, not even if he punched Bucky right in the mouth, but he’s got it all wrong. He can’t talk like this, like just because winter snatched his Ma away that Steve’s next, like all the times he’s been tenacious enough to fight against his ailing body don’t count for anything now that she’s gone. He can practically feel Sarah turning over in her freshly dug grave. 

 

“Nah, not quite. You go right on out that door and you go tell your Ma I said ‘no, thank you,’ and I will not be coming over for Christmas dinner. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, Bucky Barnes.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, when Bucky gets home from his shift at the pharmacy, he walks straight into the kitchen to find his Ma. It’s warm in a way that melts the chill from his bones, bustling and busy as his mother stirs gravy on the stove, chatting away with Becca. His father sits back in his shabby recliner in the next room, reading something from the paper to Betty, while the youngest girl, Beverly plays with a doll on the floor. She drops it as soon as she sees Bucky, running in and latching around his leg.

“Bucky, Bucky! We made cookies for Santa!” She points to a plate of brightly decorated sugar cookies laid out on the counter. “Are you going to read the Christmas story to us tonight?”

He swallows, not meeting her eyes as he cocks his lips into a grin. “Actually, Becs wants to read to you tonight, okay?” He drops a kiss on her head and she runs back to her doll.

Winifred Barnes gives the whisk to Becca and comes to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips. He bites his lip, because as much as he hates leaving Steve at home by himself on Christmas, he really hates disappointing his Ma.

She chucks him under the chin and he looks up to find a sweet potato pie and a tea towel full of cookies held out for him. When he opens his mouth, she just kisses him on the forehead.

“Go on, and tell him we love him.” There’s a knowing shine in her eye as she says it, and Bucky hugs her fiercely in return, knowing he could live a hundred years and never deserve his mother.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve turns off the radio at six on Christmas Eve night, unable to stomach another Christmas story or carol coming through the tinny speakers. He’s just finishing the final strokes on Bucky’s cheek, finishing the Christmas gift he’s been hiding from the man for over a month. It’s silly, he knows, but Bucky will love it anyway. Just the thought of seeing his face when he opens this gift is all the Christmas spirit Steve can stomach at the moment.

Bucky has always been the best storyteller Steve knows. He’s spent years hearing tales that Bucky has woven over his sickbed, keeping him entertained far better than any novel or comic ever could. As young boys, Bucky and Steve daydreamed about writing a famous comic together, Bucky forming the stories and Steve bringing them to life with his drawings. As time went by, finances and responsibilities put the daydreams on hold, but Steve has always kept them alive in his sketchbook. His favorite character is the Winter Soldier, a broad, muscled man with Bucky’s face and a cybernetic arm. It perfectly captures Bucky, ever a lover of science and the bright and shiny future, and the character gave Steve an excuse to capture the sturdy curves and soft lines of Bucky’s body. 

 

With the death of his mother still lingering in the apartment like smoke, Steve was itching for the lightness of childhood more and more each day. He didn’t want to reach out to Bucky, because he knew he’d come over every night if Steve asked him. And he did, right after Sarah died, Bucky had stayed at the apartment every night for a week until Steve ran him off to go back to his own house. He knows Bucky will be there, but the more he takes of Bucky, the harder it is not to have him every day, and the harder it is to swallow the awful feelings he has for his best friend down like bitter medicine. 

 

So he puts the ideas on paper, spends the long hours home alone daydreaming like a kid again, channeling his love for his best friend and his heartbreak over his Ma onto the paper, the only thing Steve Rogers can do right. 

 

He’s as satisfied as he’s going to be with the rendering in his hands, but he knows if he doesn’t put the pencil down he’ll ruin the whole thing. The Winter Soldier stands tall, dressed in dark military gear, looking over his shoulder. His expression is hard, but a sparkle of adventure flashes in his eyes and a mischievous smirk tugs up one corner of his mouth. His hair is overlong hair and there’s a heavy shadow of a beard on his jaw, but the metal arm that starts at the top of his shoulder gleams in the invisible sun. A red star is stamped proudly on his shoulder, and the perfectly outlined plates in the arm fold together to meet in a clenched fist. Before he forgets, Steve scribbles his name in the corner with the date, 12/24/36. 

 

He’s just folding it carefully between two sheets of old newspaper when there’s a loud rapping at the door. He jumps despite himself, muttering under his breath and grabbing his father’s old baseball bat just to be safe. 

 

Steve unlocks the door and cracks it, only to find a ruddy cheeked Bucky Barnes standing outside in the cold. 

 

“Merry Christmas, Stevie!”

 

He’s got his arms positively full of stuff, and before Steve can even think about being pissed off, Bucky is pushing past him, scattering paper snowflakes and dishes of food and bags and ribbon and is that a Christmas tree?

 

“Yep!” Bucky crows proudly, pulling off his cap and slinging it in Steve’s direction. Surprisingly, he catches it, the thick wool sopping wet and half frozen. 

 

“Where the heck have you been, Buck?” He knows his mouth is hanging open, but this is ridiculous, even for Bucky. There’s half a Christmas feast taking over his wobbly kitchen table, and damn if there isn’t a tiny fir tree perched in the middle of the mess, newspaper wadded around the bottom of its trunk. 

 

“Now before you say anything,” Bucky starts, holding up a hand, “I don’t wanna hear it. Your Ma would have your hide if she were here right now. I’m sorry, Steve, but Christmas simply will not come without a tree in the Roger’s household. It was kinda slim pickin’s down at Old Man Delaney’s, plus I figured you couldn’t bitch too much about this one.” He holds the little tree up, his still gloved hands clasping it as if it were a small animal or a precious gem. 

Steve feels his ice cold heart shudder at the mention of his mother’s name, and damn Bucky, but he’s right on the money. Sarah Rogers really did love Christmas, and Steve just didn’t want it to come without her. So he figured if he shut the drapes and turned off the radio until the day passed, kept the cardboard box full of handmade decorations and tattered stockings shoved under the bed, maybe Christmas just wouldn’t come at all and he could escape the season all together. 

 

Leave it to Bucky Barnes to mess up his best laid plans. 

 

He feels the ice around his heart start to melt just a little, and he purses his lips as hard as he can to keep them from trembling, but he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t think he can. 

 

“Seems I was right,” Bucky responds, his smug grin going a little softer. He turns on his heel and lets Steve run a hand over his treacherous eyes in peace, if only for a moment. 

 

“You see, it looks like shit, I know, but it just needs a little love,” Bucky continues, pulling open the cabinet and grabbing a vase that just a week ago held dead flowers from the funeral. He tosses the newspaper wrapping away and shoves the little tree inside, unwrapping his scarf and rewinding it around the soft blue glass of the vase to hide it, a makeshift tree skirt. 

 

“Now I snatched some cranberries and popcorn off our tree, but don’t tell Ma, though I doubt she’ll mind since you did help string ‘em and all.” Steve’s eyes get bigger as Bucky pulls out a messy ball of homemade garland and other odds and ends to decorate the tree. He shoves the bundle in Steve’s arms and pushes him in the direction of the tree with a quipped “Let’s go!” before he slips into Sarah Rogers old bedroom and brings out the box of decorations. 

 

Steve’s hands move of their own accord, slowly detangling string from little paper cats and bears and nativity scene characters that are drawn and hastily colored by several Barnes’ children, and some by himself, little loops of twine tied through them for hanging. Bucky buzzes around him, hanging ornaments and running his mouth as he goes. 

 

Almost an hour has gone by, and there’s a roaring fire in the firebox in the wall, strings of paper snowflakes strung from the ceiling, and so many decorations wrapped and stuck to the tiny Christmas tree that it’s hardly green any more. Steve’s just standing in front of it, still silent, his arms wrapped around himself. The dull roar that has been Bucky Barnes since he walked through the door seems to fall silent now, the only noise in the apartment being the quiet click of a spoon stirring liquid in a mug, and Steve can feel Bucky coming close behind him as he presses a cup of hot chocolate into his hands. Steve breathes in the warm, rich smell of real chocolate and spicy cinnamon, and he knows if Bucky were a little bit closer, he would smell much the same, of warmth and comfort and  _ home.  _

 

He risks a glance at the man beside him, and then Bucky’s wrapping his sturdy arms around Steve’s waist, his chest flush against Steve’s back and his dimpled chin coming to rest on Steve’s shoulders, and he swears his puny heart stops mid-beat. It wouldn’t surprise him, the first time he’s been happy in months, if his traitorous heart were to give up on him this very moment. 

 

“You’re thinking too loud, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, his lips dangerously close to Steve’s ear, and suddenly, he dares to think that maybe, just maybe, all the falling stars he’s wished on, all the fallen eyelashes he’d blown away, and hastily, guiltily murmured prayers over the years were coming true for this one moment. Bucky is warm against him, his thick body firm and strong against Steve’s frail one, and he feels like it’s the first time he’s felt calm since his Ma died. The way Bucky’s touching him feels like something between a friendly hug and being held, and he aches to know which it really is. The mug trembles a little in his hand, and Bucky brings a hand up to cup the other side, bringing the drink gently to Steve’s lips. “Go on,” he says softly, letting Steve drink down a few shaky gulps. It’s heavy and grounding in his stomach, sending a blooming warmth clear to his fingers and toes, different from the throbbing heat in his chest and his cheeks as Bucky squeezes him gently with his free arm. 

 

“Better?” Bucky says, impossibly soft in Steve’s good ear. He can only nod in response.

 

They stand in silence for a long time, Steve’s mind buzzing and relishing in Bucky’s touch. Steve knows, deep down somewhere, that Bucky has held him this close a few times before, but they were only feverish memories when his body was wracked with chills and delirium. He can’t tell for sure if they are dreams or reality, but he hopes with all his might that they were real. 

 

“Why,” he starts, his voice scratchy with disuse. “Why did you come down here for this, Buck?”

 

He finally chances a look Bucky, pulling back a little to see his handsome face lit by the glow of a few half melted candles circling the little tree. He’s both boy and man, serious and lighthearted, strong and sweet. His grey eyes flicker over to Steve’s and he gives him a slow, knowing smile, the same one Steve has tried to capture again and again with pencil and paper. 

 

“Stevie,” he says with a weak chuckle, “you’re my best friend...my best guy, you know? You really think I could just stay at home knowing you’re here alone on Christmas?” He turns a little so they’re facing each other, his fingers sliding down Steve’s forearms to grip his wrists loosely. Steve can hear his heart pounding in his ears. 

 

“But what about the girls, and your Ma and Dad? You won’t be at home for Christmas.” Steve protests.

 

“I’ll miss ‘em, don’t get me wrong. But…” Steve feels himself tremble just a little, because not only has Bucky pulled Steve flush against his chest, his head tipped up to hold Bucky’s gaze, but Bucky is nervous beneath his hands, his eyes a little wider and his breathing coming in shallow pants. “It doesn’t feel like home unless I’m with you.”

 

The words are falling snow in the silence of the room, and Steve’s brain won’t accept it even though the message is so loud. Yeah, he loves me, Steve thinks, he’s always loved me, but not like  _ that.  _

 

But then Bucky’s fingers are sliding through the baby hairs at the back of his neck, holding him so gently, just like he knew Bucky would. His chin tilts just so, his blue eyes flutter closed, and is this it? Is Bucky Barnes actually going to kiss him?

 

Then warm lips are on is, and it turns out Bucky does taste of chocolate and cinnamon and home. Very distinctly home. 

 

The kiss is soft, chaste, a gently probing pressure that Bucky pulls away from slowly, with a soft smile, but only Steve would notice his carefully guarded features, gauging Steve’s reaction. 

 

Steve reassures him by surging up on his tiptoes to meet Bucky’s lips again. 

 

“Merry Christmas, Steve,” he whispers, his breath sending delightful shivers dancing down Steve’s spine. 

 

“Merry Christmas, Bucky,” he murmurs in return, his cheeks so warm and smile so bright he’s sure Santa can see it clear from the North Pole. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky convinces Steve eventually to turn the radio back on, much to his chagrin. He distracts Steve with some impromptu dancing, practically carrying Steve through the quick numbers since he knows Steve has two left feet and less stamina than a dust bunny to boot. He normally hates dancing, hates how awkward it makes him feel, but Bucky has him laughing through the whole thing. Finally, the radio host reminds them that it’s past midnight, 12:20 actually, and officially Christmas morning. 

 

“C’mon, Steve, lemme have my present. Please?!” He pouts with that plush lower lip, and Steve marvels at the fact that he could reach forward and capture it in his teeth if he wanted instead of only daydreaming about it. Bucky seems to read his mind, and his eyes flash with a sudden burst of mischief. 

 

He presses his forehead to Steve’s. “Come on, pal. Don’t you think I’ve waited long enough?”

 

Steve knows he’s being fed a line, can read right through Bucky like a priest at the confession box, but damn if he doesn’t gobble up every single bite. He squeezes Bucky’s fingers in his own and goes over to the book on the shelf where he’s hidden Bucky’s gift. 

 

He presses the paper to his chest, and goes back to sit across from Bucky. “It’s not much, but---”

 

“Don’t even start tryin’ to play me, Rogers. They’ve gotten better every year, and I should know, I’ve kept every one since first grade.” He smirks and winks at Steve, cleverly sliding the paper out from between his chest and fingertips. 

 

When he flips the paper over, his face falls abruptly. Several long, agonizing seconds tick by before Bucky finally opens his mouth again. “Is this…?”

 

Worry worms through Steve’s gut, but finally Bucky blurts out, “Is this the Winter Soldier?”

 

Steve nods, praying that Bucky won’t brush it off or think it’s silly, but then his fingers are brushing around the pencil lines and he looks like he’s drinking in every detail. “This is swell, Stevie. Really.” He looks up with a gleam of nostalgia in his eye, and Steve doesn’t have a thing to say, so he just stares back at Bucky for a while because he can. 

 

“I can’t believe you remembered,” Bucky says after a minute, looking back down at the drawing. “I thought I was the only one who still remembered our stories.”

 

“You kidding? You’re the grown-up, remember? Got yourself a real job. I’m the one still in school for drawing pictures,” Steve offers, picking at the threadbare knee of his pants. 

 

Bucky snatches his hand up, quick as a flash. “Stop it, don’t you dare act like you ain’t gonna be famous someday, Steve. You’re so talented---look at this! A few Christmases from now you’re going to be giving me a comic book with this guy on it,” he says, turning to run his fingers fondly over the drawing again. “Better be mint condition too. With your John Hancock on it.”

 

Steve grins despite himself, relishing in Bucky’s attention. “So, where’s my present, huh? D’ya get me anything?”

 

Bucky tugs on his wrist, sliding him forward effortlessly until they’re pressed together hip to knee. “Oh yeah, I got somethin’ for ya,” he says, smirking dangerously and kissing Steve promptly on the lips. A sharp heat runs down his spine, and the inclination behind Bucky’s words makes him feel a little dizzy. But then Bucky is pressing a tiny box into his hands, his smile turned from cocky to nervous again. 

 

Steve feels a nervous chuckle bubble out of him. “What, ya bribing me with jewelry, Barnes?”

 

It’s out of his mouth before he can reel it back in, and he’s so  _ stupid _ , you got the best night of your life already, why do you have to go and ruin it, Steve---

 

When he glances up however, Bucky is looking at him with an unreadable expression, his lips turned up at the corners and his grey eyes impossibly soft. 

 

“As long as you and I have been together,” he says softly, leaning close to Steve’s good ear, “I don’t think I’d have to give you a ring to know you’re mine. But I surely would if I could.”

 

If Steve was warm before, he’s burning now. His skin, his chest, his eyes, he can only slide his shaky fingers into Bucky’s.

 

“Go on,” Bucky prods, nodding toward the box. Excitement dances in his eyes. Steve pulls the red ribbon off the box and pops the lid, and a shiny metal key sits inside. 

 

Confused, he looks back at Bucky, who’s practically vibrating in his seat. 

 

“You goin’ somewhere, Buck?”

 

He nods, and any dismay Steve may have vanishes at the sight of Bucky’s megawatt grin. “I sure am. Put a deposit yesterday down on a one bedroom on 34th. It’s right across the street from the art building at the college.”

 

Steve feels his shoulders loosen a little, thankful Bucky isn’t going too far, not leaving the city like he’d feared. He could come see Bucky right after class any time he wanted. 

 

“Mister Delaney called me in his office last week, gave me a promotion. I figured it’s a good time to get out of Ma’s hair and get out on my own.”

Steve still doesn’t get the gift, but he puts all his effort into his excitement for Bucky. A promotion, a bonus? He’s practically a millionaire at this point. “Are you kidding, Buck? That’s amazing! We ought to be out celebrating right now!”

 

Bucky laughs, puts Steve’s hand in between his palms, and he’s practically squirming in his seat. “Thanks, Steve. It’s a real sweet place, not much but it’s just right. I’ve got one small problem though. Big problem actually.”

 

At Steve’s furrowed brow, he continues. “I need a roommate. Think you can help me out?”

 

Steve’s eyes widen, and Bucky looks like he’s about to burst. 

 

“Bucky, I...I don’t know. I don’t have a job, I couldn’t help you pay--”

 

“Didn’t you hear me?” Bucky says, his voice an excited whisper. “I got the rent, Steve. I know you hate staying here, and I know the money your Ma left is running out. The longer you stay here the sicker it makes you. She would want you to move on, Steve. She was real proud of your drawings, of your classes.  And she wasn’t the only one who knew how talented you are.” Steve bites his lip as Bucky presses their foreheads together. 

 

“I don’t want a hand out from you, Bucky,” he manages, his voice low and rough with emotion. 

 

“Ain’t no handout. Just thought this might be easier if we did it together.” He leans back, his eyes running over Steve’s face. “So what’s it gonna be, Steve? You think you can handle coming home to my ugly mug everyday?”

 

Steve looks around the room. Sees his Ma’s old rocking chair, the scant dishes on the counter, the dark curtains that have been drawn for far too long. Takes in the tiny Christmas tree and it’s tiny candles still burning brightly, the little paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. The brightness that Bucky brings into his life every day just by being near, tonight being no different. 

 

He swipes at a stray tear and closes the space between them, smiling against Bucky’s lips as he captures them in a kiss. 

 

“Yeah, I think I can handle that.”


End file.
